


Five Times Travis Annoyed the Hell out of Wes (and One Time Wes Didn't Really Mind)

by Rainbowcat



Category: Common Law
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowcat/pseuds/Rainbowcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s… Wesley, is it? The philosophy TA who’s probably going to be the bane of Travis’s life this semester. He’s already handed back Travis’s first few reading responses, which are only a couple of paragraphs each, covered in neat and tiny handwriting spelling out dismissive comments in red ink.</p><p>College AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_One._

Philosophy of Law is tucked somewhere obscure in Pearsons Hall, and though Travis has attended a handful of sessions so far, he stills faces significant delays trying to weave his way up a maze of staircases. Travis swears this is some Hogwarts-esque shit, and the stairs – and classroom, let’s be real – change locations every few minutes or so. Fuck that. When he finally reaches 403, he throws open the door, apology ready on his lips, and finds the room empty.

Well, mostly empty. There’s one inhabitant in the far corner, laptop open and bored expression on his face. It’s… Wesley, is it? The philosophy TA who’s probably going to be the bane of Travis’s life this semester. He’s already handed back Travis’s first few reading responses, which are only a couple of paragraphs each, covered in neat and tiny handwriting spelling out dismissive comments in red ink. Apparently, this fucking TA believes that Travis has a fundamental misunderstanding of HLA Hart and isn’t afraid to slam him on it. He’d have dropped the class already except that it’s required for his Criminology major, so now he has to resign himself to a slight reduction in his GPA and a few hours of minor torture per week. It’s fine.

“Was there a field trip I missed?” Travis jokes, and Wesley looks up.

“Um, no. Class was actually cancelled. Guessing you don’t check your emails too often?”

Damn. Sassmaster TA must have awoken on the wrong side of the bed this morning. “Sorry, Wesley. I don’t have a smartphone like the rest of the world. Harder to follow every professor’s whims that way, you know?”

The TA stares at him for a second, sizing him up. Then, remarkably, he softens. “It’s Wes. And relax. Take your day off.”

“Why are you here?” Travis asks, pushing into the classroom and ignoring the order. “Tearing apart more reading responses?”

He feels bad about the question the moment he says it, especially upon noticing the tense hunch that draws together Wes’s shoulders. The second of gentleness has clearly vanished. “No, actually, just answering Professor Sutton’s emails while he’s out sick. I had to come find his notebook in the classroom for the password so I just stayed here. Up until a minute ago, it was nice and quiet.”

Ah, there’s the sass. Well, maybe Wes has a right to be defensive. Travis takes a moment to observe him. Even in the September heat, he’s wearing a neat white collared shirt tucked into black dress pants, and his hair miraculously never had the gel melted out of it. If he didn’t seem so stressed, and if he didn’t care quite so much about how Hart and Hobbes differed in their views on war as punishment, Wes would make for some lovely eye candy. Besides, Paekman had enthusiastically endorsed both the class and its TA. No matter Travis’s skepticism, Paekman is rarely a bad judge of character.

“And furthermore,” Wes adds, folding away the laptop and rising to his feet, “I wouldn’t have to tear apart your responses if you had something cohesive to say about the readings.” With that, he gives a formal nod and heads out of the classroom.

Yeah, nevermind. Wes is an asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two._

Luckily, the next few weeks of Philosophy go well, and Professor Sutton lectures often enough that Wes is delegated to sulk in the back. With Wes’s distractingly perky ass safely out of sight, and with Sutton’s nerdy sense of humor, Travis actually finds himself focusing. He surprises himself with how much he likes philosophy, something he previously believed a fluffy discipline, and it encourages him in his choice of major. Wes eases up on his ruthless feedback, so one day when Travis bakes a batch of peanut butter cookies and has some left over, he’s in a good enough spirit that he decides to take them to Wes’s office hours. Besides, he totally has a question about the Speluncean Explorers, and he’s definitely not using it as an excuse to see Wes get irrationally excited about hypothetical law cases. 

The office door is open and Wes is there by himself, perched over his laptop as per usual. He looks up as Travis enters, and the small smile that results absolutely does not send tingles down Travis’s spine.

“Travis. How can I help you today?”

“Hey, Wes.” Travis eases into the seat across the desk and gives himself a moment to adjust: having Wes’s undivided attention is an intense feeling. “I wanted to talk to you about our most recent class discussion-”

“The Spelunceans,” Wes interrupts, and sits up a little straighter. There’s a focused gleam in his eyes. “I’m so glad you came in. I did a lot of research on Fuller for my undergrad thesis, and the case always crops up even now for my Master’s. I’d love to get your thoughts on it.”

“Oh,” Travis says, flattered and out of his depth all at once. 

“You know, when Professor Sutton took the class poll of who preferred which judge, I was surprised to see you were the only one who voted for Handy. Why is that?” Wes steeples his fingers and stares at Travis, as if he thinks Travis actually has something valuable to contribute. What an about-face from his previous snide grading.

“Yeah, well, it just makes sense, you know?” Travis squirms in the chair, focusing on the snowglobe on the desk instead of the smile tugging at Wes’s lips. “He was the only judge who said, hey, fuck this- oops, sorry, _screw_ this- executing these people would be stupid, we need to use common sense. We’re not just robots that blindly follow the law, because we have to use our best moral judgment, right?” 

“You’re a Crim major?”

“Yeah,” Travis says, puffing out his chest a little. “And I think Handy’s kind of argument is what you need in law enforcement. Because laws… laws aren’t always right,” he trails off, suddenly intimidated to take on a philosophy TA about moral reasoning. Wes, though, is nodding in encouragement. “Uhh. Cookie?”

He holds out the bag to Wes, who takes it and fishes one out. They’re still a bit warm and Travis is already eager, waiting for Wes to bite into it and fervently laud Travis’s baking skills and-

Wes drops the cookie, scattering crumbs over his neat stacks of paper and immediately dousing his hand in sanitizer.

“What? What?” Travis half-rises out of his chair, wondering in horror if he accidentally mixed cockroaches into the dough. Hey, with the state of those dorm kitchens, it’s always a possibility.

“These have nuts in them,” Wes says, rubbing an agitated hand over his neck and jaw. He looks incredibly tense.

“Yeah! Peanut butter! Shit, why, are you allergic?”

“To peanuts,” Wes says curtly. “Even skin contact- ugh.” He breaks off, rolling up the sleeves of that ridiculous button-down he always wears and rubbing sanitizer all over his exposed arm. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Do you need me to call an ambulance? Or do you have like an EpiPen or something-”

“I’m okay as long as I don’t eat them, but give a guy some warning next time, okay?” Wes glares up at Travis, as though Travis had orchestrated an elaborate murder plot instead of trying to be considerate in sharing his leftovers, not with his friends, no, with his goddamn TA. He can feel his panic subsiding, replaced rapidly by anger.

“Sorry for doing something nice,” Travis snaps back. He stands and seizes the bag, striding out of the room with quick steps and forgetting all about the Spelunceans. He realizes halfway down the hallway that he’s left behind the offending cookie on Wes’s desk. 

Good. Let him develop one hell of a rash from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't heard of [The Case of the Speluncean Explorers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Case_of_the_Speluncean_Explorers), I highly recommend checking it out.


	3. Chapter 3

_Three._

After the Cookie Incident, Travis stops talking to Wes for a while. It’s safer that way, and it has the added bonus of getting him to focus extra-hard in lecture. There’s even one shining moment where Professor Sutton stops him in the dining hall to praise him on his sharp thinking during discussions.

“Ah, thanks,” Travis says, awkwardly piling a seventh or eighth bread roll on to his plate. 

“No, I mean it,” Sutton says. “Good work, really. You’re sure you don’t want to be a Philosophy major? We could use minds like yours in the department.”

Travis hides a smirk, wondering how much of his mind is just hormone-fueled in a desperate attempt to outdo Wes. To impress him or to show him up, he’s not really sure. “Sorry, man, I’m pretty deep into the Criminology major at this point. Great class, though!”

Sutton claps him on the shoulder and goes on his way.

He’s trying hard to hide how much he loves that class, but it doesn’t stop him from looking up sometimes, catching Wes’s eye and grinning before he remembers that they’re not on friendly terms anymore and Wes thinks he’s some sort of peanut butter serial killer. Still, after a couple of weeks, Wes’s disdainful glares let up to be replaced with controlled neutrality, and finally with what Travis might even venture to call warmth. He runs into Wes occasionally while crossing the quad or scanning books in Pearsons’s front office, and they make small talk in which Wes treats him with a stiff formality.

Aside from those minor moments of discomfort, Travis’s life is going smoothly. He parties, sometimes picks up a girl or a guy for the night, then wakes up the next morning and chips away at the endless paperwork senior year has dumped on him. He studies some, procrastinates some, and stress-bakes small mountains of cookies and muffins. It’s all par for the course.

Then that one Saturday night rolls around.

It’s late October, chilly enough that Travis and his suitemates decide to head out for a bar and drink until they’re safely wrapped in an alcohol blanket to take them back home. The little place they choose, The Watering Hole, is not their usual digs. It’s something farther away from campus, more mellow than all the favored joints of the undergrads. They ascend a rickety staircase, squeezed around the corner of a building and so narrow Travis would’ve missed it had he not planned on going there to begin with, and then they’re inside.

The atmosphere really is a lot calmer, and the crowd is older than Travis is used to. There seem to be mostly grad and PhD students mingling with some of the townspeople and younger professors.

Kendall nudges him and points at one of the women in the crowd. “That’s Professor Kramer,” she stage-whispers. “I heard she’s slept with a student or two.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Travis answers, feeling a bit amenable to student-authority figure hookups at the moment.

“Yeah, except they were her advisees.” Kendall rolls her eyes and grabs his bicep, steering him toward one of the booths. “C’mon, let’s get started.”

They order their first round of drinks, and then the second, and then some shots. Travis eases up, puts classes and thesis and work out of his mind. He’s feeling pretty decent with a couple of beers in him. Well, that, and three or so shots, and the rum and coke, and the gin Kendall insisted on splitting. So yeah, all told, he feels well enough, and as his thoughts take on a softer edge they definitely don’t wander toward-

“Wes!?”

His friends swivel toward him. “Nah, it’s Mike, remember?” one of his bros answers, grinning. 

Travis rolls his eyes and punches Mike on the shoulder. “Dude, I know. But check it out. I think my Philosophy TA is over at the bar.”

It’s true. Wes is sitting up by the bartender and he looks fantastic. Travis has never seen him this dressed down and it’s doing funny things to his insides. Wes is in a pair of jeans and a black v-neck, and he’s skipped the careful hair-gelling for something messier, spiked. Well, fuck.

“That guy?” Kendall nods in his direction. “He’s hot.”

“He’s alright. I guess. I mean, he’s fine. Not really my type.” Travis shrugs and makes of show of turning away. Mike had set a glass of whiskey down in front of Travis while he’d been ogling Wes, and he drinks it quickly.

“Not your… type?” Kendall bursts out laughing. “Travis, you’re full of shit.”

Travis comes up with no good response to this, so he settles for flipping her off. He spends the next few minutes trying not to turn around again.

He fails a lot.

It’s hard, okay? Wes’s presence is like a magnet, and really, he just wants to check the guy out, no big, it’s all harmless. Travis had just never taken Wes for a bar kind of guy, even for a bar like The Watering Hole. But Wes looks right in his element, posture relaxed on the bar stool and easy smile on his face. He chats up the bartender and some of the people around him, throwing loose grins at a group of girls nearby that are clearly thirsting after him. Travis feels his throat constrict. He’s never been on the receiving end of one of those grins, not even when he drops a comment in class that makes Sutton slump back in his chair and whistle in approval.

Between Mike, Kendall, and the rest of the gang chipping in for alcohol, Travis is on the fast track to being plastered. Someone puts Jaeger in front of him and that’s it, he goes straight to shitfaced, does not pass Go, does not collect two hundred dollars. And despite the increasing ruckus the group is making, Wes doesn’t so much as glance his way once.

That’s all well and good for Travis, like, who needs sexy blonde aloof TAs anyway, but then this one girl shows up and crosses every line Travis didn’t even know he had. She’s beautiful, all curves and thick black hair, and she and Wes undeniably know each other. Know in the Biblical sense, Travis thinks darkly, watching how Wes laughs far too often and reaches out to touch this girl’s arm. Fucking hell.

“Sorry, guys-” Travis stands and sways on his feet. “Right back. Gotta take care of something.”

“Go get ‘im, tiger,” Kendall slurs, not even turning around to see where he’s going, and fuck him sideways for being so obvious.

Travis reaches the bar in a nearly straight line, popping up behind Wes, who’s in the middle of an animated conversation.

“-defending Hobbes’s claim that pre-state societies are inherently and thus necessarily driven by violence! Can you believe that?”

“Oh, Wes, you’ve always been a dove,” the girl answers with a gentle smile, and that’s Travis’s cue.

“Wes, my man! Who’s this?” He claps Wes on the shoulder. Wes startles and turns around.

“Travis? Ah, Travis, what the hell, this is _not_ the time-”

“No, it’s fine, introduce me,” the girl cuts him off firmly and smiles up at Travis. He registers drunkenly that she’s kind of hot, too, and how he’d do his best to smolder at her if it weren’t for the angry ball of tensed muscle that is Wes right in front of him.

Wes honest-to-God pouts before relenting. “Travis, this is my friend Alex. Alex, this is Travis, one of my students.” 

Travis extends his arm to shake Alex’s hand, pointedly brushing his wrist against Wes’s upper back as he does so. 

“Nice to meet you,” Alex says with a genuine smile, and damn her for being friendly. It’s always harder for Travis to hate someone when they’re so fucking personable.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he rumbles, and does the same maneuver pulling his arm back. Wes tenses even more.

“Well,” she says to the two of them, eyes sparkling, “I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?” And she melts into the crowd before Wes can do so much as open his mouth to stop her. Travis, for his part, keeps his mouth gleefully shut.

“God,” Wes groans after she’s left. “Do you know nothing about timing?”

“She seemed pretty freakin’ nice,” Travis says, ignoring Wes and taking the seat next to him. “Can I get you a drink?”

It’s Wes’s turn to ignore the statement. Instead, he drains his glass and gets a face-full of ice. “I was making progress,” he laments to the ceiling. “They tell you, you know, never associate with an ex, but I-”

“Whoa.” Travis slams his hand down on the counter. “That’s your ex? Dude. Man. Bro. Maybe like, don’t.”

“We were getting there,” Wes says on a mournful exhale, and holy shit, Travis realizes that Wes is just as wasted as he is. Apparently, drunkenness for his TA translates into highly vivid conversations about Hobbes's theory of the state of nature. Figures. “Now that she’s actually spending more time with me-”

Travis cuts him off again. “Nuhhh uh, no you don’t. You do not go near exes. Rule-o numero uno of relationships. Like, never ever go back to someone you broke it off with. With… whom you broke it off. That shit will fuck. You. Up.”

“I didn’t ask for your advice.” Wes’s voice comes out clipped, with none of the slurring that softens Travis’s words. “See you around, Travis.”

And then he, too, vanishes into the crowd.

Travis sits for a stunned moment, but then he gets up and makes his way back to the booth where his friends are marginally drunker than when he left them. Kendall takes one look at his face and goes “ah, sorry, buddy,” before rubbing his elbow and proffering her glass.

Travis drinks, feeling like he’s gonna need it.

He keeps his head down for the rest of the night, but like magic, something pulls his gaze toward the door right as Wes is leaving.

And on his arm, a guy who looks a hell of a lot like Travis. Only slightly taller, slightly more muscled, wearing a slightly more expensive leather jacket.

It feels like a punch to the gut.

And that’s when Travis realizes he’s a little fucked.


	4. Chapter 4

_Four._

Travis knows he’s become obsessed, he knows it, he doesn’t need Kendall confronting him over lunch at their favorite dining hall to tell him that.

“So, what,” she asks without prelude, twirling spaghetti squash around her fork, “is behind this whole Wes thing? Like, I know he’s hot and stuff, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pine this hard. Or like, pine at all. You’re Mr. Love-‘Em-and-Leave-‘Em, remember?”

Travis takes a second to answer, considers not answering at all. He doesn’t quite understand the fascination himself, even though it’s been digging under his skin for weeks now, ever since that encounter at The Watering Hole. Travis can’t help but to replay the night’s events in his mind, wondering if he should have let Alex and Wes be, or who that guy was, if he and Wes are dating now. Wes isn’t giving him any hints since he doesn’t act differently in class. He just sticks to the back taking diligent notes and only ever looking at Travis when he’s speaking. Travis hasn’t gone back to his office hours, either, taking his questions to Sutton directly.

“I don’t know,” he admits finally. “He’s just, uh… really sexy.”

It’s a cop-out response and Kendall, to no one’s surprise, picks up on it immediately. “Okay, but so is Jack Watson, and you didn’t bat an eye when you slept with _him_. So? Is it just a thrill-of-the-chase kind of thing?”

The thought has certainly crossed Travis’s mind, and it scares him. He’s worried that he only likes Wes because he can’t have him, and if he ever does get the guy into his bed, he’ll lose all interest in the person he’s become so invested in the past few months. The whole semester will have come to nothing. 

But his attraction goes beyond that, he thinks. Wes is brilliant, provocative, elusive. He’s the only person Travis has attempted to seduce who’s been completely indifferent to his advances. Travis is used to flashing blue eyes at whatever dude or chick seems receptive, and having them buy right into his flirtations. It’s all very tame and feeds into Travis’s ego far too much for his liking. Wes doesn’t put up with his bullshit, doesn’t coo over Travis when he dials up the charm. It knocks Travis back on his ass and he loves it. Everything about Wes is so infuriating and so captivating that Travis wants to be by his side all the time, absorbing every inane word Wes has to say about Bentham or Scalia or anything else. Something about Wes pushes at Travis’s soul in a way he hasn’t felt for anyone in college. Wes keeps him on his toes, keeps him humble and raises his adrenaline levels just by being in the same room. 

“I don’t think so,” he says. “I think I have to ask him out.”

Kendall raises her eyebrows. “Wow. Senior year, and you, of all people, want to start a relationship. Who are you and what have you done with Travis Marks?”

Travis shrugs. “If you knew him, you’d understand.”

“I guess I never will,” Kendall says, and gets out of her seat. “Dessert?”

“I’m gonna do it!” Travis asserts, following her. “I’m gonna bone my TA.”

The students at the table they’re passing give him an odd look.

The idea of asking Wes on a date doesn’t leave Travis alone. It grows and grows over the next few weeks, nagging at him when he’s studying at night and when he takes his usual seat in Philosophy class.

He stops sleeping around.

One fortuitous afternoon, Travis shows up to the Café only to find himself in line right behind Alex. He clears his throat politely to get her attention.

It takes her a few seconds, but then she raises her eyebrows in recognition. “Hey! Travis, right?”

“Nice memory,” Travis replies, and nods subtly at the student working behind the counter in that universal gesture: _I’m picking up whatever she orders_. “Listen, Alex, I have a question.”

Alex orders a lemonade, and then turns back around when the cashier waves off her five and points at Travis. “That’s sweet. You shouldn’t have. What’s up?”

Travis orders as well, takes his time paying for the cookie and Alex’s lemonade. “So, Wes.”

A hint of a smile crosses Alex’s face, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Does he have any allergies besides the peanut one?”

Now the smile materializes fully. “No,” she answers. “And just so you know, snickerdoodles are his favorite. He can’t resist… uh, can’t resist them.”

“How did you-”

“Oh, Travis, you think I’m blind? I saw the way you acted at the bar and what your actions said about you, even if you didn’t say it out loud. I hope things work out.”

“Why did you break up?” Travis asks.

“I’m in law school. Wes is getting his Master’s in Philosophy. We’re both hyper-focused on finishing school and starting good careers right now, and I think that we weren’t able to make time for each other. Well, actually… I think Wes _was_ making time, but it wasn’t time that he had, you know? He was sacrificing too much for me, because he really wanted to prioritize me, but he also cares very deeply about his work. I wanted him to focus on that instead of me so that he wouldn’t resent me down the line for distracting from the bigger picture. This breakup has honestly shown that our differences would be irreconcilable in the end. Wes still thinks that we can be close friends, and he’s still sort of hoping that we’ll get back together. I don’t think that exes should stay close, and I think that my career will always be the most important thing to me, which would make Wes jealous. He needs someone a little more… giving.” She shrugs and takes a pointed sip of the lemonade. “Someone who needs him around.”

“Oh.”

“So no, we didn’t break up because of how awful he is or how hard it is to get along with him. Wes is a really, really good person. Good luck, okay?”

And with that, she nods and heads out the door.

Damn. Travis can see why Wes is so into her: from the few minutes he’s interacted with her, she seems whip-smart and no-nonsense. Not to mention fine as hell. They must have been a power couple.

When Travis gets back to his dorm, the first thing he does is check if the kitchen still has cinnamon. He’ll need it for the snickerdoodles.

*

It’s getting close to finals week, so professors and TAs are making extra office hours and group study sessions. Travis goes to a group session that Wes is leading, and Wes looks a bit surprised to see him given how Travis has been avoiding him lately. Luckily, he doesn’t look miffed, and treats him courteously enough during the discussion. Score.

On the Thursday before finals, Wes sends out an email to the class announcing that he’ll be in his office for two hours that afternoon. Travis prepares for it as if he’s going to the opera. He showers, shaves, puts on his cleanest pair of jeans and favorite Henley. Most importantly, he places a fresh batch of snickerdoodles into a brown bag and carries it carefully across campus to Pearsons.

He’s more nervous than the time he asked Emily Hall to prom.

There’s a line in front of Wes’s office; he’s seeing people one-by-one. Travis makes sure he’s last in line, telling Rozelle to go in front of him when she appears a few minutes after him. She raises her eyebrow at his jeans and the bag of cookies, but luckily makes no comment.

The office hours that Wes announced have already ended by the time Rozelle steps out. “He says to tell anyone left in line that he’ll stick around until everyone has their questions answered. I think he really wants us to be prepared for this final. So, uh, good luck in there.” Her tone is heavy with things implied, and damn, is everyone in on this?

Travis enters the office.

Wes is tapping away at his computer, fingers moving more rapidly than usual, and it seems he’s using every available minute to do his own work even with the undergrads soaking up his time.

“You have a question?” Wes looks up at him, and his fingers are _still_ moving. His tone is curt and impatient, and Travis is struck, suddenly, by how _good_ Wes is and how impossible it is for him to show it. Here he is, volunteering his time to make sure the undergraduates pass their final, and really, why would he have any investment in that? The university only mandates that TAs have one office hour a week, which he had already held on Monday. Rozelle had been in there for at least half an hour, so Wes had clearly spent time answering all of her questions. But at the same time he needs to work on his Master’s, and the annoyance Wes feels at being kept here isn’t selfishness, Travis realizes, but a profound concern for the quality of his own work. Wes _cares_. He cares deeply about the things in his life, his schoolwork, his undergraduates, his employers – look at him, having answered Professor Sutton’s emails while the man was sick, Travis has never met a TA like that – he cares and he has no idea how to balance all that caring, so it gets expressed, like Alex had implied, as resentment. Travis feels an ache in his chest at the idea of Wes, taking everything so personally and wrapping his emotions in a cloak of cynicism.

Overwhelmed with raw feeling, Travis seizes the moment.

“I do have a question,” he says, sitting on the edge of Wes’s desk. “Well, a proposition.”

Wes glances up briefly, then keeps typing. “Yes?”

“Date me.”

Wes snorts. Travis can’t tell whether that’s a good noise or not. While the hope is still alive, he holds out the paper bag, having a déjà vu to when he did the same thing months ago and nearly gave Wes an allergic reaction in his ignorance. He can practically hear his own heartbeat.

Wes takes the bag with caution and sniffs it. His eyebrows go up in surprise, but his expression shutters just as quickly. “Get off my desk,” he says, his tone almost bored.

Travis does not. “Go on a date with me. Please.”

“If I say yes, will you get off my desk?”

Travis slides into the seat, probably bruising his tailbone in his haste. He leans both elbows on the table, staring earnestly until Wes looks up at him again. “And?”

“According to the Faculty/Staff Handbook – ” more typing – “chapter three, section sixteen, relationships between students and their professors, including Teaching Assistants and anyone else who may have control over that student’s grades, are forbidden.”

Travis grins. “You know that section pretty well, huh? You look this up before?”

“I do my job.” Wes shrugs. 

“Try a cookie,” Travis insists, quashing the urge to jump up on the desk and close Wes’s laptop for him.

“I just ate.”

“We’d make a great couple, Wes.”

“And you know this how?”

“Opposites attract, man!” Travis leaps to his feet, leaning his hands on the desk so he has some height over Wes, who doesn’t look intimidated. “Listen. I’m chill, you’re anal-retentive. I’m messy, you’re organized. I…” he casts his mind about, not having prepared this speech ahead of time. “I’m broke, you’re probably a trust fund baby. Don’t you feel it too?”

Wes’s eyes narrow, but he’s biting the inside of his cheek, and if Travis didn’t know better he would say that Wes looks… amused, even. “You know, none of those things were particularly flattering.”

“Well,” Travis says, and makes a big show of turning around and walking to the door. “I still haven’t heard you say no.”

He walks silently, slowly, not praying because he doesn’t do that shit but begging whatever deities might be listening-

“Travis,” Wes says, and Travis stops, sending a silent _thank you Jesus_ to the sky. “As of December 19th, the semester will have ended. I will not be your TA anymore, and will no longer have a say in your grading.”

“Mm.” Travis turns around to face Wes again, keeping his face neutral so as not to burst the moment.

Wes squints at him again. “You’ll pick me up at eight on that evening and buy me dinner. I live in the grad apartments, room 1407. Be prompt.”

One time, Travis had picked up the charging unit of an electric fence, unaware that it was still switched on. A shock had coursed through his hand, up his arm, and right into his heart, where it felt as if a miniature explosion had gone off. This feels a little bit like that moment.

“I’ll be there,” Travis says earnestly. Then he books it out of that office like his heels are on fire, but not quite fast enough to miss Wes’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bone-my-TA line is a direct [College Musical](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFE2fT3fSyY) shoutout.


	5. Chapter 5

_Five._

In spite of everything, Travis still has _finals_. It seems like such a mundane and anticlimactic thing after having successfully asked Wes out, but he spends his last weekend of the semester locked in his room, drowning in a pool of paper. Travis finds himself wishing he’d asked Wes more than just to go on a date during office hours.

“Who the fuck is Dworkin?” Travis murmurs, glancing over the study guide Sutton had emailed them, and that’s when Kendall calls.

“I still can’t believe you’re going on a date with Wes. You made that up,” she accuses by way of greeting. Travis rolls his eyes, finally locating the section on Dworkin he’d crammed into his notes. It’s disappointingly short.

“Well, believe it,” he says and squints to reread his own handwriting.

“What are you wearing?”

“Really, Kendall?” Travis teases, abandoning Dworkin as a lost cause. “I thought you and I were just friends.”

Kendall huffs. “To the date, Travis.”

“Oh, I dunno. A suit? Do I have a suit? Do _you_ have a suit?”

“You’re not borrowing my suit,” Kendall shoots back. “And where are you gonna take him?”

“Uhh.” Travis stalls, his mind successfully derailed from Philosophy of Law. “Domino’s?”

“Jesus.” He hears a muffled thunk and imagines Kendall must have faceplanted into the wall. “You’re hopeless. Okay, I’m gonna text you the names of a few restaurants, and you need to _look_ – Travis, are you listening? – you need to look at the menus ahead of time and then _call_ and make a reservation. Are you okay spending a bit of money? They’re on the pricey end.”

“Good thing I’ve been saving all semester,” Travis says drily, thinking of all the bar excursions and baking ingredients. He’ll find a part-time job next semester. “Anyway, thanks, Kendall.”

“What would you do without me,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question, and Travis is laughing as she hangs up. A few seconds later, his phone buzzes with Kendall’s texts, and Travis decides he can take a study break to check out her suggestions.

*

It’s seven on the evening of the 19th. Travis’s finals are done, for better or for worse, but there’s still one hurdle left to clear.

By now, Travis has showered and shaved and pulled his nicest clothes from the depths of his closet: a light gray suit on top of a white button-down. He doesn’t own a tie, apparently, and so he settles for leaving the top few buttons undone. Let Wes get a sneak peek.

By 7:30, Travis can’t take it anymore. He resists the temptation to apply even more cologne and heads out the door instead, down to the parking lot a few blocks away. His car is an old piece of junk, but it’s kept him rolling since high school, so he hopes fervently that Wes won’t find it too much a downgrade from his own Mercedes or whatever the fuck he drives.

The car clunks over in the direction of the grad apartments, and he’s parked only ten minutes later. He finds the correct building and making his way up the stairs, and does he always sweat this much?

Travis is in front of Wes’s door by 7:50. The grad apartments are swanky, all black wooden doors numbered in silver and fucking potted plants in the hallways. Travis spends a few seconds panicking about everything: his appearance, his car, his choice of restaurant, the fact that he is a goddamn broke-ass undergrad with nothing to his name but a few dreams and some spare change. And on the other side of the door is a force of nature that Travis has deluded himself into thinking he could tame.

Screw it. He’s Travis fucking Marks.

Travis knocks.

He hears footsteps, and then Wes pulls open the door, his face shifting through several expressions before he settles on dubious surprise. “You dressed up.”

“Ready to go?” Travis asks, projecting years’ worth of seduction experience into his voice and hoping it holds up to scrutiny. Wes tilts his head.

“Give me a minute.”

He disappears and comes back just as quickly, shutting and locking the door behind him before giving the handle a series of quick tugs. Travis did dress up, sure, but Wes is sort of stealing his thunder here: he’s in a black and white suit, hair gelled only a little, wearing the shiniest pair of shoes Travis has ever seen. And Travis will be damned if the sight of Wes doesn’t make his mouth water.

From there, Travis goes through the motions as though in a dream. They descend the stairs, Travis unlocks the car and remembers to open the door for his date, who raises his eyebrows at their mode of transportation but thankfully slides in without comment. And then they’re off, exchanging the most tentative of small talk, and Travis reels at how _different_ it all feels. But he latches on to the topic of his Philosophy final, and Wes asks how he liked the prompt about Locke, and they’re off.

They reach the restaurant and step inside; Wes’s face does a Thing again.

“Been here before?” Travis asks, glancing around at the tables covered in white tablecloths and candles. He notes that there are absolutely no undergrads to be found in a place as bougie as this. In fact, his gang had made it pretty clear to him that they would be trekking to In-N-Out tonight, and that he should have fun “with his filet mignon.”

“Alex and I used to come here,” Wes says, and fuck, shit, fuck, he’s fucked it up. But then Wes turns to him and touches his shoulder; it’s the first contact Travis has ever felt Wes initiate. Wes smiles just slightly, and that smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. “It’s good. You should try the salmon, it’s delicious.”

Travis doesn’t think he’s ever ordered salmon before, but he thinks he could do it now, could order some goddamn caviar-crusted lobster if he wanted to. His head spins as the host shows them to their table. They sit, Travis remembering to unbutton his blazer and spread the pristine white napkin across his lap, and Wes pores over the wine list with all the concentration of one dismantling a time bomb.

Travis winks at Wes when he glances up. “Not choosing the wine pairings? That’s definitely what one of my moms would do.”

“One of?”

Travis gives a brief explanation of his background, but Wes asks more questions, probing ever so gently that Travis wants to take his hand and reassure him that _it’s okay, you can ask what you want, you won’t offend me_.

Dinner should be awkward but it’s not, it’s really not. Travis probably overshares in his own nerves and eagerness but Wes cocks his head and listens, laughs at all the tales of Wes’s foster siblings. Wes himself tells Travis about his Master’s and plenty of stories about working for Sutton, including the permanent smell of incense that used to cling to his office until some grads more or less staged a coup, and how Wes has, on multiple occasions, walked in on Sutton’s poorly-timed one-man yoga sessions. He skirts carefully around the topic of his own family and Travis doesn’t press. But at one point, Wes mentions his mother almost offhandedly; Travis hangs on to every word because he doesn't know the next time Wes will be this open again.

Somewhere in there, Wes orders wine for them both. Travis orders the salmon, and when he does takes a bite, it tastes amazing.

*

The evening flows by all too fast. When the check arrives, Travis pounces on it, tsk’ing at Wes’s protestations and then immediately wishing he hadn’t when he looks at the total. Still, his bank account should be able to handle it (barely), so he puts down his credit card and thinks that it’s worth it for the approval in Wes’s eyes across the table.

Wes looks at ease when he steps back into Travis’s trashmobile, doesn’t even object as Travis turns up the radio a little too loudly. He drives them back to the grad apartments, and like a true gentleman, walks Wes back to his door.

This is it: that awkward moment at the end of a date, when even Travis in all his experience is at a loss for words. He sticks his hands in his suit pockets and sways. “So, uh, thanks.” Travis pauses. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Thank you,” Wes says, and the same inscrutable amusement that Travis catches every so often is back on his face. “I did too.”

“We should do it again sometime.”

“We should,” Wes agrees, smirks a little wider.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Wes nods at him.

“Why'd you agree to come with me in the first place? I mean, I know I sat on your desk and bothered you… was it pity, or…?”

Wes’s gaze turns away from Travis’s face as he considers this. “Curiosity,” he says finally, with a shrug. Travis opens his mouth to make fun of him, until Wes continues, “I was surprised. Not that many people want to spend time with me.”

Wes drops this line so sincerely, so matter-of-factly, that Travis’s heart constricts; it’s not even a self-deprecating joke, it’s a truth that seems to have become engrained in Wes over the years. He knows now how he wants to end this date, and as much as he was hoping to explore that spectacular grad-apartment bed, the last thing he wants to do is convey the message that he’s only using Wes for sex. So Travis leans in and presses a kiss to Wes’s cheek, who stays very still.

“I’ll just- um. I’ll head out now. Have a good night.” 

And he flees down the stairs, already feeling the stirrings of a terrible case of blue balls.

*

_Emotional_ blue balls, Travis finds himself thinking darkly a few days later when he’s starting to regret the PG ending to the night. He’s resisting the temptation to text Wes _what are we_ and instead busies himself visiting various foster families over the holidays, spending Christmas Day at no less than four different houses. He’s no longer officially in foster care, so he has no “home” to return to over break; instead, he goes to see his past moms and siblings and a few college friends. Travis doesn’t get a New Year’s kiss, but spends the evening playing a special Midnight Laser Tag round with Paekman, which is much cooler anyway. He crashes on Paekman’s couch the next few nights, playing video games and drinking iced tea.

Travis and Wes start exchanging texts. Travis thinks Wes is enjoying it, but can’t be quite sure because Wes texts as if he’s drafting business memos.

_R u seeing the news?! cops @griffith not doin their job 4 shit, lmao_

_I don’t own cable, but I can't imagine the inadequacies of LAPD are entertainment, Travis._

Still, Travis always gets a reply from Wes a few seconds after he texts, and on rare occasions Wes even texts first, so Travis chalks it up to a win. He’s on his phone with a grin so often that sometimes he smiles as soon as he hears the text alert, a stupid Pavlovian response that’s becoming harder and harder to suppress. There’s one awful moment where Jody plops him down on her couch and shows him her grandparents’ set of rings, says that they can go get them resized for “the belle or beau on the other end of the line.” Travis wants to die.

He heads back to campus with a week or so left of break, the dorms eerily deserted. Travis kills time by watching buddy cop shows and driving by the grad apartments far more often than he’d like. But Wes’s place is empty, Wes himself having returned home for the holidays. Travis confirms this only when Wes sends him a message about _“my mother :/”_ , an incident which also reveals that Wes does, in fact, know how to use emojis.

Travis is still lost as to what their relationship has evolved or perhaps devolved into, since most of it now is just Travis sending inane messages and Wes responding instantaneously, albeit with exasperation. He texts Kendall and complains about Wes, and when Kendall shrugs him off with an order not to “whine like a dude,” he texts Wes and complains about Kendall. They both respond to him with breathtaking indifference.

Finally, though, it becomes time for the spring semester, and students flood back into the dorms. The night before classes start, Wes texts Travis a quick _Hello, I’m back on campus_ and it’s all Travis can do not to drop everything and book it to the apartment. He waits what he feels is an appropriate twenty minutes, and _then_ he drops everything and books it to the apartment.

He knocks and Wes answers, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

“Eager much?”

Travis doesn’t deny it. “Welcome back.” He rocks back on his heels, doesn’t ask what he’s been wanting to ask for the past few weeks. Wes is leaning against the doorframe, cool and unrevealing. “So, I’ve been thinking, uh.”

“Yes?” Wes prompts. 

“I really like – um, I liked our date last month.” Smooth, Travis. He winces a little at himself. “And maybe, if you wanted to, we could do it again, like, this week, or maybe even tonight-”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Wes mutters, and grabs Travis by his lapel, reeling him in.

Travis’s brain goes straight into _holy shit_ mode, and then Wes’s lips are pressing against his and it blanks out altogether. He remembers to move as if he’s being electroshocked back into consciousness, wraps both arms around Wes’s back. In contrast to Wes’s assertiveness a second ago, the kiss is surprisingly chaste, tentative. Travis allows it for a second, settling for the careful brushing of lips and noses, until it’s no longer enough and he feels like he might burst apart at the seams. So he runs his tongue across Wes’s lower lip, rejoicing at the shiver it earns him. Emboldened, Travis licks his way into Wes’s mouth, feels Wes push back against him and get a thigh between his legs. 

They spend a few more seconds just like that, PDA-ing in the middle of the hallway, and sluggishly, Travis marvels that this was not what he was expecting but everything he was hoping the night would become. He’s already half-hard and is only barely refraining from thrusting against Wes’s leg in his enthusiasm when Wes breaks them apart.

“Is this alright?” Wes whispers, and Travis groans in part arousal and part exasperation because _God_ , is it ever.

“Yeah, but _inside_ , Wes, please. I have a lot of kinks, but semi-public sex in the grad apartments isn’t one of ‘em.”

Wes snorts and unlocks the door; then they’re inside and there’s more kissing. They haven’t even made it past the entrance hall, and Travis pushes Wes against his own door so that it slams shut.

Wes kisses the way he does everything else Travis has seen him do: with intensity. He’s got one hand back in Travis’s jacket, the other hand on the back of his neck. Travis thinks he’s being steered, and he smiles at that, wonders what it takes for Wes to relinquish some control. He resolves to test it out later and untangles from Wes with great difficulty to catch his breath. For the first time, he gets a look around the apartment, which is, as he would expect, freakishly neat and seems to be barely inhabited and-

“Are you seriously playing _smooth jazz_?”

Wes turns an endearing shade of red, and Travis chases the blush down to the hollow of his neck, gets his tongue there. Wes tilts his head back and whines, and Travis, thinking a little sadistically of whichever prof Wes will be TA’ing for tomorrow, bites at his exposed throat. The music in the background is unmistakably sleazy, and Travis is torn between secondhand embarrassment and a sharp uptick in his arousal. “Mm. Why am I into that?”

“Well,” and Wes grabs at Travis’s jaw, pointing it to the side so that Travis is focusing on the dining table, “I _did_ pour us some wine.” He’s not joking; two glasses of red are gleaming in the overhead light. “But then someone decided to show up with alternate ideas.”

Travis refrains from pointing out that this was, in fact, not his idea. He’s not looking any gift horses in any mouths tonight; but speaking of mouths, Wes’s finds his again, and he submits happily to its explorations. He could keep this up _forever_ , Travis thinks, and then rescinds the thought a second later when he realizes that his dick might be burning a hole through his pants.

“Bed, Wes, now, please,” he asks as politely as he can manage, and Wes laughs a little and tugs him through a door.

Oh, how woefully inadequate Travis’s fantasies about this grad-apartment bed had been. He quashes the urge to jump up and down on the thing, which has a square footage equal to his entire dorm room, and takes care of more urgent desires first. Travis gives Wes’s shoulders a shove so that he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and he straddles Wes’s lap, pausing to take it all in.

Wes is looking up at him, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his ridiculous button-up already half undone and hair mussed from Travis’s wandering hands. His lips are parted and a little swollen. Travis leans down to nip at a corner of Wes’s mouth, and Wes bites back, hungry. Travis uses his own body weight to get both of them horizontal, Wes pinned beneath him. 

They shed clothes; Travis unbuttons the rest of Wes’s shirt with slight difficulty, being distracted by Wes’s hands fumbling at his belt. He would tear the shirt off, of course, but the mere idea of Wes’s would-be rage is a mood kill. Travis hides his grin in the crook of Wes’s neck, finally gets the damn thing off. Victorious, he leaves a trail of kisses down Wes’s sternum, tonguing at a nipple and hearing Wes sigh.

“Ticklish,” Wes admonishes, and Travis laughs. He reaches up to kiss Wes and they grind against each other, slow and sweet, with the underlying burn of arousal sending shivers up his spine. 

Wes is just as hard as he is, and as much as Travis needs to get his fucking erection taken care of, _now_ , he still prides himself on being a selfless lover. So he pulls at Wes’s pants, and Wes obligingly tilts up his hips to let Travis get the rest of his clothes off. And then, at long last, Travis gets to stare down at his TA, sprawled out and hard and wanting.

Well. Ex-TA.

He lets his gaze linger on Wes’s dick, drinking in the sight of all that newly exposed skin. “Not bad for a Philosophy Master’s,” Travis says, approving, and goes down on him.

“What’s that supposed to- _ahh_ ,” Wes breaks off, because Travis is mouthing at the base of his dick, and Wes’s hands fly to the top of his head. 

Travis snickers and sets about acquainting himself with Wes’s body, trying to push his own arousal to the back of his mind. It’s not easy, though, given how goddamn _responsive_ Wes is. Travis licks a long stripe up his dick and feels Wes’s fingers scrabble to find purchase in his hair. Wes exhales through his nose, bucks up against him. Travis sucks at the head of Wes’s dick a little experimentally and Wes moans.

It’s as if it’s been a while for Wes, Travis thinks, and oh, that reminds him. “Hey,” Travis murmurs. He replaces his mouth with his hand and presses a kiss to Wes’s hip. “What happened with that guy?”

“What?” Wes half-sits, but Travis pushes him back down with his free hand. He wants to taste more of Wes, wants to hear more of those wonderful moans, except- “What guy?” Wes insists.

“The guy from The Watering Hole,” Travis says. He settles between Wes’s legs more comfortably to start sucking him off in earnest, just to prove that whatever Wes’s response will be, he’s got nothing on Travis’s ability to give head.

“Morgan?” Wes pants, and even hearing the name sets of a little pang of envy. What a tool name. Travis hates him already. “Ahh – don’t stop. Was just – to piss – you off.”

Travis stops. He hears Wes make a noise of indignation. “Wait, seriously? You never slept with him?” 

“God – ah, yeah, _there_ – no. Dropped him – mm – outside the bar.”

Something warm blooms in Travis’s chest. “You were trying to make me jealous.”

“Was _not_ ,” Wes says crossly, the effect tempered by how eagerly he thrusts towards Travis’s mouth. “Don’t be so – oh, fuck – full of yourself.”

“It was,” Travis says, gleeful now. “You liiiiked me.”

“ _Travis_ ,” Wes growls. “Shut the fuck up and get your fucking mouth back on me.”

“Language,” Travis chides, but now his motivation has doubled. Wes, apparently, has the capacity to swear like a sailor, and Travis wants to hear more of it, wants to push more buttons. 

“Shit,” Wes groans, drawn-out and heartfelt, as Travis couples the use of his mouth and his hand. Wes’s dick twitches in his mouth, and there’s spit sliding down Travis’s chin and between his fingers, and he’s never felt so alive.

Travis sucks Wes down as far as he can take him, breathes slowly to get used to the weight of his dick pushing down his tongue. He swallows and Wes yelps, hips jerking up. Travis stays where he is, licking and sucking until he can feel Wes’s thighs start to tense. “Travis – I’m gonna,” Wes says, and that’s Travis’s cue to pull off.

Wes groans in disappointment. Travis straightens out over Wes again and leans down to kiss him. Though Wes returns the kiss, it’s laced with frustration, Wes scratching long fingers down Travis’s spine and doing him the courtesy of reminding him of his own erection. He scrambles out of his jeans and underwear and feels a little surge of pride at the way Wes’s eyes widen.

“That’s right,” Travis tells him.

“Are you getting back down here, or do I need to take matters into my own hands?” Wes says.

“Pun intended?” Travis jokes and, with great effort, hauls off the bed. “I have a better idea.”

“Where are you going?” The question comes out in a whine. 

“Just looking for,” Travis slides open a drawer, “ah, here it is. Good boy.”

He returns with a small bottle of lube which, Travis notes a little smugly, has yet to be opened. He pours some on his hand, chucks the bottle aside, and leans down between the two of them.

“Oh,” Wes sighs as Travis wraps a hand around both of their dicks, slotting them together between his fist. Travis agrees wholeheartedly. He moans into Wes’s shoulder, grinding down to get just a little bit closer, that much faster, and his brain is awash in the prickling heat of it.

Wes is an unstoppable force, thrusting into Travis’s fist, raking nails across his back, trembling. He cries out when Travis’s thumb brushes the underside of his head, and then stills, as if he wants to-

“Nope,” Travis says, though at this point the word is more than a little garbled. He grabs the base of Wes’s dick and squeezes, putting a halt to their rhythm. “Not yet.”

“Fucking-!” Wes gets a hold of Travis’s neck with his teeth and oh, yeah, that’s gonna bruise. He gasps when Wes bites down and sucks hard.

“That’s what we’re doing,” Travis answers and flips Wes over so that he’s lying on his stomach.

Wes is gorgeous like this, pliant and spitting curses and so utterly wanton that Travis has to glance away for a second so as not to come right then and there. He doesn’t want to fuck Wes, partly because it would be too soon but mostly because Travis doesn’t think he can last long enough to get any penetration going. So he settles for reaching one hand down under Wes and puts the other hand on his own dick, jerks himself off even as he watches Wes.

Wes lifts himself onto his elbows and knees for leverage, breathing heavily. Travis drives up the pace, keeps the rhythm of his hands fast but sloppy and every second oh so good. Wes is still swearing on long moans, but even as the volume of his voice reaches its critical level, Travis pulls his hand away.

“ _Travis_ ,” Wes snarls, “I swear to _God_ , you better cut this fucking shit out _right now_ and let me-”

Laughing, Travis flips Wes onto his back again and takes his dick into his mouth. He’s lost the finesse of the technique, but it doesn’t matter because Wes shoves into him with a growl. And then, all at once, Wes goes completely silent, and come is spilling onto Travis’s tongue and down his throat.

“Well done,” Travis murmurs when he’s finished swallowing. He kisses Wes’s thigh, his stomach, his jawline, sprawls next to Wes whose chest is heaving.

“Never,” Wes gasps, catching his breath, “pull that kind of stunt again.”

“That’s fine, I got other stunts in mind,” Travis says, and grins as he nudges his erection towards where Wes’s hand is lying limp. “Help a homie out?”

“I’m not your homie,” Wes grumbles, but he wraps his hand around Travis’s dick and rubs him up and down, almost lazily.

Travis takes care of the rest, thrusting into Wes’s hand with enthusiasm. He takes one look at Wes’s face, blissful and fucked out, and then his orgasm punches out of him as he comes into Wes’s fist.

“Oops,” Travis says, scrambling up to find some tissues. He wipes up the mess and chucks the tissues over the edge of the bed to join the lube bottle. Hopefully Wes won’t have too much of a stroke tomorrow when he sees their hookup byproducts on his floor.

Content, Travis slides under the covers and chases the heat of Wes’s body. He rubs a hand down Wes’s side and kisses his nose. Wes flings an arm over him.

“Stay,” Wes mumbles, half asleep and half sprawling over Travis.

“Wasn’t planning otherwise,” Travis says, but Wes is already passed out. 

And if Travis shows up late to his first class on the first day of last semester… well, then that’s between him and his professor.


	6. Chapter 6

_+One._

Despite everything that Travis had expected, Wes isn’t a morning person.

He never has been, not for the five months they’ve been together. Given how put-together Wes always is, Travis imagined that he just snapped right out of bed in the morning, read the entire newspaper cover to cover, and headed off to class. But no, Wes is at his whiniest when the alarm clock goes off, which is saying something. He groans endlessly, shoves his entire head under the pillow, presses snooze about fifty times, and only cracks open an eyelid when Travis, taking pity on him, brings him a mug of coffee. Even then, he’ll sometimes drift off with his head on Travis’s lap until Travis forcibly lifts him out of bed.

And it works between them. It’s worked for a whole semester now, and Travis can’t believe his luck. Every night he gets to go to bed with Wes, having unofficially moved into the latter’s apartment. He gets to explore that narrow chest and those surprisingly muscled arms with his lips, gets to breathe in the scent of Wes’s hair as they fall asleep together. He gets to wake up still cradling Wes, so much more peaceful asleep, before the stresses of the day cause little furrows to appear in his brow. He gets to eat breakfast with Wes, kiss him goodbye over their bowls of cereal and yogurt, and come back to him for dinner, some TV, or a night at The Watering Hole, if they feel like getting out.

Wes is the most amazing cook, and he whips up all these insane Italian dishes like Travis has never tasted before. Travis scrambles to keep up by providing dessert, soufflés and homemade ice cream and macarons, ignoring Wes’s protests that they’ll both get fat with a solemn promise they’ll work it off in bed later that night.

Which they do, of course. The sex is mind-blowing in a way that Travis never expected, so much better than all the hookups he’s had in the past few years. It’s the only way Travis ever gets to watch Wes really lose control and let himself be vulnerable, flushing red all the way down to his chest and panting and sweating. It’s the little moments – the way Wes looks at Travis while they’re pressed together, how he runs his fingertips down Travis’s back, how he begs “more, Travis, baby, please.” Or how he unfailingly looks up at Travis and makes eye contact while he’s giving head, so serious and eager to please at the same time. Travis gets off with a shout of Wes’s name.

And sure, they bicker constantly. Travis loved Sutton’s class so much he went back for the advanced seminar extension in the spring, a class on punishment. He brings up his readings to Wes over dinner and they end up squabbling over things like whether the paternalistic approach is viable in society, Wes’s roast butternut squash completely forgotten. Wes also yells at him for being a slob and yells at him for changing the jazz music while he’s studying and Travis yells back that Wes shouldn’t yell all the time. Travis gripes endlessly at Wes for sacrificing some weekend nights to study or answer questions from anxious undergrads, having taken on another TA position for a class other than Sutton’s so that he and Travis could stay together. He can’t stand Wes’s rigidity, whereas Wes complains about Travis’s “irresponsible” lack of routine. They nag at each other as they walk across campus; when Paekman catches sight of them one time from across the quad, he texts Travis a few seconds later that he can refer them to an _excellent_ marriage counselor.

But at the end of the day, they’re still right there for each other, side-by-side. They read each other’s academic work and leave edits, which bumps up Travis’s grade in Punishment considerably (hey, Sutton doesn’t have to know) and lightens Wes’s own workload. They get brunch on Saturdays and then return to bed right afterwards, kicking off all clothes except for their boxers in order to cuddle and doze the afternoon away. They go on dates either in town or in LA, introducing each other to the things they love and letting each other into the more personal parts of their soul. Wes takes Travis to an LA Philharmonic concert, which Travis enjoys greatly but would never admit out loud. In return, Travis makes Wes come to a home Dodgers game, and Wes spends the few hours grumbling under his breath about how his suit is getting dirty and how the hot dogs are unpalatable. But when the kiss cam turns on the two of them, Wes reels Travis in without batting an eye and makes out with him until the camera pans away. Travis pulls back with a very stupid grin.

Travis wakes up first on an early June morning, as per usual. He’s been done with classes for a few days, but undergrad commencement isn’t for another week. He’s moved all his stuff in with Wes for now, where they’re planning on staying for the summer. Travis has taken a temporary job as a waiter in town, picking up some nice tip money and saving for when he enters the Police Academy in the fall. Wes, meanwhile, is scrambling to finish his Master’s. Since the beginning of May he’s started staying up late and falling into bed beside Travis when the latter is already fast asleep. He’s become testier than usual, and Travis tries his best to give him time, space, or some quality head, depending on how Wes is feeling. Usually, though, he’ll just set some tea and freshly-baked scones on Wes’s already-cluttered table, drop a kiss on his head, and retreat to the bedroom to play video games or watch TV. 

Not anymore, though. Wes stirs awake as though the coffee Travis brings him is a cup of smelling salts. He sits up, blinks in irritation at the sunlight streaming in, and sips the coffee in silence. Travis, for his part, leans against the headboard and reads a book.

“Big day today,” Wes finally mumbles, running a hand through disheveled blonde hair.

“Is it?” Travis keeps his face carefully neutral, not taking his eyes off the pages of the book.

“I – did you forget?”

“Forget what?” Travis flips the page.

“Damnit, Travis, stop needling me.”

Travis puts down his book. “I’m not needling you, babe. What’s up?”

“This is a _really important day_. Tell me you know what’s happening.”

Travis pretends to search his brain. “Uh… there are the rich regulars coming in to the restaurant and they leave a big tip?”

“Travis, this _isn’t about you_.”

“Oh, right!” Wes looks relieved for a second, until Travis plows on gleefully, “you were gonna go get a haircut, right? That’s awesome, dude. It’s getting a bit long, I think.”

Wes gets up with a snort, clearly pissed off. “Nevermind. I’m gonna go eat something.”

The moment Wes leaves the room, Travis jumps off the bed, scrambling after him as quietly as he can and pausing in the doorway. He can’t see Wes, who’s disappeared behind the kitchen counter, but the silence is telling.

“…Travis?”

“Right here,” Travis calls back, and he can’t keep the laugh out of his voice. “What’s wrong?”

Wes reappears in the doorway, still clutching his coffee cup and staring at Travis through accusatory eyes. “What’s all this?”

Travis gives Wes his best _who, me?_ face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wes stalks back into the living room, and this time Travis follows. Wes is stopped in front of a small pile of carefully wrapped gifts and one large cake in the shape of a mortar board, which says in a careful silver script, _Congratulations, Wes!_ Travis knows exactly what it says, given that he spent most of the day yesterday working on it and then hid it in the apartment before Wes got home from his last ever editing session.

Wes is speechless. He seems to hover somewhere between furious and floored, and the combination is hilarious on him, since for once he can’t produce a single sound. The overall effect leaves him looking like an irritated kitten. 

Finally, he turns back to Travis. “You made this.”

“Well, duh,” Travis says, grinning smugly.

“You didn’t forget.”

“Wes,” Travis says, and he’s overwhelmed by the warmth that floods through him. “No. Of course not. You’re done today! You’re handing in your Master’s and they’re giving you a shiny diploma! How am I supposed to forget?”

Wes leans back, and Travis wraps his arms around his waist, pulls him in close to his body and kisses the spot right under his ear. “Congratulations,” he murmurs. “I’m so proud of you.”

And at last, Wes goes all loose in Travis’s arms, huffing out a surprised laugh. His eyes are still fixed on the presents and the cake, but his hands are reaching back to Travis’s neck, and his laughter is like music to Travis’s ears.

“You’re… something else,” Wes mutters, and he turns around so he can meet Travis’s eyes.

Travis shrugs. “I know.”

“You little shit. I can’t believe you strung me along.”

“Are you angry?” Travis presses his lips against Wes’s forehead, his cheek, the tip of his nose.

“Angry? God, I’m-” Wes breaks off to take a deep breath. “Believe it or not, I’m happy.”

And then he draws Travis in for a kiss, which Travis cheerfully accepts, though he nudges Wes’s hand away when it wanders towards Travis’s pajama pants. “Hey, hey, whoa, really? You don’t want any cake? It’s _chocolate fondant_ ,” he teases.

Wes rolls his eyes, gives him a look that Travis has gotten all too frequently, even during his first few days of Philosophy of Law. It’s a look that clearly says _Travis, you fucking dumbass_. Only now it’s softened by a whole bunch of affection, written so honestly and hopefully on Wes’s face that a lump rises in Travis’s throat. “Travis,” he answers, taking his hand and pulling him back toward the bedroom. “The cake can wait.”

And it does.  

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been sitting in my drafts for years, until I finally decided to dust it off and finish it. The academic portions are inspired by my own experience as a Philosophy major, with a special shoutout to the first Philosophy class I ever took - Philosophy of Law.
> 
> This work is dedicated to Max, my most devoted cheerleader and most ardent (read: only) fan. I couldn't have brought myself to finish this thing without his encouragement and support. Happy belated (early) birthday, beb! Luvya more than fanfiction.
> 
> A special thank you to Savannah, my wonderful beta reader, especially for reading in a fandom she's not technically a part of. Welcome to the lives of these two wonderful idiots.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to all of you!! I hope I did Wes and Travis at least some justice, even transposed into AU, and I appreciate everyone who stuck with me through this quirky little journey.


End file.
